by Sandra Brown
brass rod. Meager gray light leaked through the faded calico.
Raindrops as heavy as sinkers dripped from the eaves of the house in
which he'd spent the night.
He had blessed his rescuers for saving him. He had thanked them
profusely for their hospitality. They, in turn, had asked his blessing
on their son and his pregnant second cousin. Father Gregory, having no
alternative that he could see, had agreed to perform a wedding ceremony.
It was planned for today. He hoped he remembered all the words.
Seminary seemed eons ago. But then so did all his life prior to the
night Basile had arrested him in that men's room in City Park.
Gregory cursed his rotten luck. What had compelled him to cruise the
park that evening? Why hadn't he gone to the movies instead?
It wouldn't have mattered, he thought dismally as he pulled on his
soiled clothes. Sooner or later Basile would have conscripted him to
fight in his private war against Pinkie Duvall. Basile had needed
someone with Gregory's unique combination of qualifications. If Basile
hadn't accosted him in the park, it would have been somewhere else.
After checking his appearance in the cloudy mirror, he left the bedroom.
The family were gathered in the large room where the kitchen was
separated from the living area by a bar. The groom was sitting at it
slurping up Lucky Charms, the bride putting curlers in her hair.
Preparations for the wedding were in full swing. A cup of coffee was
pushed into his hand as he was introduced to the grandmas, aunts, and
nieces who had already arrived, volunteers pitching in to get everything
ready in time for the guests' arrival. The rain was goodnaturedly
cursed, he was asked to intercede and ask God for sunshine later in the
day. Smiling sickly, he promised to pass along the request. Delicious
cooking aromas emanated from the cook stove. Cases of beer were carried
in on the shoulders of burly male relatives. Being as unobtrusive as
possible, Gregory moved from window to window, looking through the rain
in search of an avenue of escape. Last night it had seemed that the
house was built on an island. He was relieved to see that it was
actually situated on the tip of a peninsula with a crushed-shell road
about fifty yards long, leading from solid ground along that narrow
finger of land to the house.
By noon the house had begun to fill up with friends and relatives, all
bearing food gumbos and crawfish, andouille and boudin sausages, shrimp
creole, red beans and rice, smoked pork, even a multitiered white
coconut cake with a plastic bride and groom on top.
Gregory understood only a few words of their lively conversation.
It was obvious they were a closely knit group, and that he was
definitely the sole outsider. Each new arrival regarded him with
suspicion. He tried to dispel their distrust with a beatific smile,
although he wasn't sure it was convincing since his face still looked
like it had been trampled by a horde of linebackers. None of the family
or wedding guests asked why he was willing to perform the ceremony when
other priests had declined on moral grounds. When he signed the marriage
license, the father mumbled thanks.
Although they didn't embrace the stranger in their midst, they
thoroughly enjoyed being around each other. The walls of the house
seemed to expand and recede with the racket they generated, especially
when the musicians began tuning their instruments.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the bride sheepishly entered the large
room. She was wearing a long, flowered dress Gregory had seen one of the
grandmas hastily altering earlier, presumably to accommodate her
distended stomach. The menfolk shoved the stumbling, half-drunk groom
forward to take his place at the side of his blushing bride.
Together they faced Father Gregory, who began the ceremony by invoking
God's blessing on this wonderful gathering of family and friends If he
boggled the sacrament, they weren't sober enough to notice.
In under five minutes, the happy couple turned to one another to seal
with a kiss a marriage that was entirely fraudulent. Father Gregory
didn't give a flying you-know-what. He just wanted to get the hell out
of there before he was exposed as an imposter.
He ate with them. He drank one beer. They showed no such restraint and
consumed seemingly endless quantities of it. The more they drank, the
louder the music became and the more energetic the dancing. Two
fistfights erupted but were settled with a minimum of bloodshed. As dusk
fell, the interior of the house grew steamy from the simmering food,
sweating people, and the passion that seemed to fuel everything they
did. Someone opened the doors to help ventilate the house.
And it was through one of those doors that Father Gregory sneaked out,
wearing one of the male cousin's wool jacket and cap.
Rain pelted him, but as soon as he cleared the doorway, he made a mad
dash for the shed that sheltered the boat that had conveyed them there
the night before. He didn't even consider getting back into the boat
he'd stolen from Dredd and which was now moored beside the family's
craft. No more swamp, thank you very much. From now on, he'd take his
chances on land. It was rife with potential hazards, but at least they
weren't quite as alien.
Looking back toward the house, he saw no sign that anyone had noticed
his escape. He ducked his head against the rain and ran from the shed.
Moving along in a crouch, he ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life,
exerting himself to the maximum of his limited capacity, racing until he
thought his lungs would burst. He sobbed with unrestrained joy when he
reached the end of the lane.
The intersecting road was a paved two-lane state highway. Bracing his
hands on his knees, he sucked in huge draughts of air, then struck off
walking briskly in what he hoped was the direction of the nearest town.
He couldn't go far on foot. His only hope was for a car to come along
before someone at the party noticed that Father Gregory was no longer
among them and came looking for him. Now that he had sanctified the
sinners, he was dispensable.
When he saw headlights coming up behind him, his heart lurched. It could
be someone from the party, sent to find him and bring him back.
Or it could be one of several law enforcement agencies searching for
Mrs. Duvall's kidnappers. Or it could be someone on Pinkie Duvall's
payroll who'd been offered a huge reward to find her abductors.
Or it could be his ride back to civilization.
Please, God, he prayed as he did an about-face and stuck out his thumb.
The pickup slowed, the driver looked him over, then passed him and
showered him with muddy rainwater. (iregory was so alsconsolate he
sobbed. He was still crying five minutes later when the next vehicle
came along. He must have looked so wretched that he evoked pity on the
driver because after passing him, the car stopped.
He jogged toward it. A teenage girl was in the passenger seat. One even
younger was behind the wheel.
They regarded him with interest. The
passenger asked, "Where's your car, mister?"
"I dumped it in the swamp after impersonating a priest in order to
kidnap the wife of a rich and famous man."
They giggled, assuming he'd just told them a whopper."Cool," the
passenger said. She nodded toward the backseat."Get in."
"Where are you headed?" he asked cautiously.
"Rawlins," the passenger told him."We're going to party."
"Cool," he said, repeating her word as he got in.
The driver floored the accelerator, the car fishtailed on the rainslick
pavement, then shot off into the wet darkness.
No more than fifteen if that, they were dressed in a manner that would
have made Madonna blush. See-through blouses and push-up lace
brassieres. Their ears, noses, and lips pierced. Dramatic makeup
accented their eyes and lips.
When they reached the French Quarter, he asked them to drop him off, but
they tried to wheedle him into sticking with them."We could show you a
good time," one said.
"Don't think we don't know how," boasted the other.
"That's just it," he said, flashing his most engaging grin."You girls
are too experienced for me."
The flattery worked. They pulled to a stop at an intersection and
Gregory got out. They blew him kisses as they drove away. He was
astounded by their stupid recklessness. Hadn't their parents warned them
against picking up hitchhikers? Didn't they watch the nightly news?
For all they knew he was a pervert.
Then, glumly, he reminded himself that he was a pervert.
Dodging the crowds who'd defied the weather to start the Mardi Gras
celebration, making eye contact with no one, he walked the few remaining
blocks. His mood lifted when he reached his street. He jogged the final
twenty yards to his townhouse. The latchkey was still hidden where he'd
left it the morning he'd joined Basile to pick up Mrs. Duvall for an
excursion to Jenny's House.
"Speaking of somebody being stupid and reckless," he muttered in
self-deprecation.
His picture was probably being circulated throughout FBI offices all
over the country and abroad. He was a wanted man. There was a price on
his head for kidnapping and God only knew what other crimes.
This was going to send his father's blood pressure off the charts.
Gregory would be disowned and disinherited.
So, what to do? First order of business: a cold bottle of wine and a
long, hot shower. He would stay here tonight. Pack in the morning.
Then get the hell out of Dodge tomorrow.
He was a little hazy on exactly how he would finance a trip without his
father's help. Should he throw himself on the mean old bastard's mercy
one last time? Maybe if he spoke to his mother first, he could appeal to
her maternal instinct, if Batlady had one.
Deciding to sleep on it, he flipped on the light switch.
"Hello, Gregory."
He screamed. Two policemen were lounging on his living room sofa.
Like giant spiders, they'd been sitting in the dark waiting for him.
In fact, one admitted it." Bout time you showed up. For two days we've
been waiting for you. Jesus," he said, scrutinizing Gregory's face up
close."You look like shit. They can't call you Pretty Boy anymore." The
other said, "Life as a fugitive just ain't what it's cracked up to be,
huh? Well, your escapade is over. Your criminal career has been cut
short, Gregory. Nipped in the bud, so to speak. Like that." He snapped
his fingers an inch from Gregory's lumpy nose.
He slumped backward against the wall, closed his eyes, and, moaning,
rolled his head from side to side. The nightmare continued.
rain had slacked off, but dark, sulky clouds formed a low
ceiling over the bayou. Remy stood in the open doorway of the shack and
watched Basile lower the boat, bow first, into the water.
He'd patched the bullet holes with materials stored in a deep wooden box
that stood against an exterior wall. From what she could tell, he had
used a pitchlike substance and duct tape. The crude repair job also had
required extensive crude swearing, but obviously it had worked because
the boat remained afloat. He tethered it to the pier.
"Is it watertight?" she asked as he approached the shack.
"I might get there without sinking."
"Where?"
"Dredd's."
"When?"
"In the morning. If the rain clears out. Could you fetch me a towel?
If I go in like this I'll track water all over the floor."
He'd worked stubbornly and steadily throughout the day in a drenching
rain without any protective gear. His jeans and shirt were soaked
through. He took the towel from her with a laconic
"Thanks," then
retreated around the corner to wash up. When he reappeared a few minutes
later, the towel was wrapped around his waist. Saying nothing, he took a
change of clothing with him into the bathroom.
His shoulders, she noticed, were sprinkled with freckles.
When he came out of the bathroom, he motioned toward the table.
"What's that?"
"Supper." Using what was available, she had laid out two place settings.
She'd even found a candle in one of the drawers where cooking utensils
were stored. It was standing in a pool of its own wax on a cracked
saucer, but it softened the rusticity of the shack
"It's just chili and
beans, but I thought you'd be hungry since you didn't eat lunch."
"Yeah. Fine."
He sat down and she served the meal. A box of crackers and bottled water
rounded out their menu. They ate in silence for several minutes.
He was the first to speak."Not quite what you're used to."
She lowered her spoon to her bowl and gazed around the single room. It
was furnished with mismatched castoffs, warmed by a space heater,
lighted by a Coleman lantern, but it was snug and dry, a sanctuary from
the hostile terrain."No, it's not what I'm used to but I like it.
Maybe because it's so different from anything I've seen before."
"Didn't a Cajun beau ever take you to his fishing camp on a date?"
"I never went on a date, and I didn't have any beaux." She nibbled the
corner off a saltine, then laid it on the rim of her bowl and reached
for her glass of water. Catching his eye, she wondered at his
astonishment."What?"
"You never went on a date?"
"Not unless you count Pinkie. I went straight from life with my mother,
to Blessed Heart, to Pinkie's house. Not much opportunity for
boyfriends. I didn't even attend the school-sponsored dances."
"How come?"
"I lived with Angel in a one-room apartment," she said quietly.
"My impression of men wasn't very favorable. I had no desire to go to
dances. Even if I had, Pinkie wouldn't have permitted it."
They lapsed into another silence, broken only by their spoons clinking
against the crockery bowls. Finally he said, "Did you ever consider
becoming a nun?"
The question amused her, she laughed softly."No. Pinkie had other
plans."
"The payback."
"I guess you could call it that. He married
me the night after I
graduated."
"No college?"
"I wanted to go, but Pinkie wouldn't allow it."
"Pinkie wouldn't have permitted it. Pinkie had other plans. Pinkie
wouldn't allow it." Taking umbrage at his tone, she said, "You don't
understand."
"No, I don't."
"I'm not ignorant. I took every college course by correspondence that
was offered."
"I don't think you're ignorant."
"Yes you do. Your low opinion of me is all too obvious, Mr. Basile."
Looking ready to argue, he changed his mind, shrugged, and said, "It's
none of my business. I just can't understand how a person, man or woman,
turns their life over to someone else and says, Here, run this for me,
will you?" Didn't you ever make an independent decision?"
"Yes. I once defied Pinkie's wishes and secretly applied for a job in an
art gallery. I had studied art, I loved it, and during my interview I
conveyed my appreciation and knowledge to the owner of the gallery.
He hired me. It lasted two days."
"What happened?"
"The gallery was burned to the ground. The building and everything in it
